


if you would stay

by zach_stone



Series: The Geiszler & Gottlieb Post-Saving-the-World Lecture Tour [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Obligatory Lecture Tour Fic, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Some Affectionate Bickering, Some hurt/comfort, Travel, we got it all here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 08:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15166388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: In the wake of the world not ending, while certain heroes are invited to a parade of talk shows and press tours, the two-man remains of the PPDC’s K-Science division are scheduled for a series of guest lectures in a good selection of the world’s major universities.Newt and Hermann travel to from Hong Kong to Boston, and Newt tries to come to terms with a world that's not ending and his feelings for Hermann that are becoming harder to hide.





	if you would stay

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to try my hand at a post-pr1 fic scenario, and like most of my fics it completely got away from me. it's also probably the most explicit fic i've written (which isn't saying much bc it's still pretty vanilla) so shoutout 2 newmann for inspiring me to write actual smut i guess. enjoy!

In the wake of the world not ending, while certain heroes are invited to a parade of talk shows and press tours, the two-man remains of the PPDC’s K-Science division are scheduled for a series of guest lectures in a good selection of the world’s major universities. Newt does not have a problem with this; as much as he talks a big game about wanting to be a rockstar, he’s made a home in academia since he was a child. Nothing delights him more than the idea of standing in front of crowds of bright-eyed freshmen and showing them that nerds can be heroes and science doesn’t have to be nearly as stuffy as certain physicist-slash-mathematicians in grandpa sweaters would have them believe.

They’re scheduled first for three universities in the eastern United States, starting with MIT, to Newt’s delight and Hermann’s grumbling displeasure. An early morning finds the two of them in the Hong Kong airport, bleary and bickering all the way to their gate, where Hermann promptly plops into a seat, props his bad leg up on his rolling suitcase, and ignores Newt entirely in favor of looking at something on his tablet. Newt wanders over to the food area and stands in line for coffee. A television is playing an interview with Herc Hansen on some morning talk show, and Newt smiles slightly to himself at the sight. He purchases two coffees — one mocha with a triple shot of espresso, and one decaf black with room for creamer — and then scoops up a few hazelnut creamer packets to balance on top of one of the cups as he makes his way back over to the gate.

Newt pauses a few feet away from Hermann. The other man is too engrossed in his tablet to notice his return, so Newt takes the opportunity to observe him for a moment. Hermann’s leg that isn’t stretched out on top of his carry-on is bent slightly so he can prop his tablet up against his knee. His brow is furrowed, his funny little glasses resting on his nose, and his mouth moves as he mutters along with whatever he’s reading. Something fond blooms in Newt’s chest at the sight, and he quickly tamps it down. The Drift might have reassured Newt that Hermann doesn’t actually find him as intolerable as he pretends to, but everything happened so fast and so much of what he saw was the Anteverse and the kaiju — he just isn’t sure. And Hermann is the only certainty Newt has left in a post-kaiju world, so he keeps his feelings to himself.

He slides back into his seat beside Hermann and thrusts the coffee under his nose. Hermann flinches, dropping his tablet into his lap, before he takes the cup from Newt with both hands. He lets out a soft sigh and mutters, “Thank you.”

Newt shrugs, taking a too-large gulp of his own coffee and scalding his tongue. “Whatcha reading?” he asks.

“I’m reviewing my slides for our lecture,” Hermann replies. He’s now struggling to balance his coffee on the arm of his chair so he can pop the lid off and dump the creamer into it. Newt reaches out automatically to hold it steady, and Hermann hums his appreciation. “I do wish they would hurry up with boarding already.”

Newt shoots him an amused look. “Man, you gotta relax. We’re gonna be on that plane for a good sixteen hours. Enjoy the leg room while you can.”

Hermann huffs, pouring the creamer aggressively into the cup. Newt didn’t even realize that was a thing that could be done in an aggressive manner. “I am not a fan of flying,” Hermann says. He rubs idly at his leg, thumb digging into the flesh near his hip, and Newt’s smirk fades to something more sympathetic.

“You’ll take your dramamine and be out cold the whole way anyway,” he says. “I’m just excited to get there. You ever been to Massachusetts?”

“You know I haven’t,” Hermann sniffs. He takes a long pull from his coffee cup and closes his eyes. His lashes are long where they rest against his cheek, and his brow unfurrows as the coffee warms him. Newt has to look away before he does something stupid like press Hermann into the chair and kiss him.

“It’s too bad we won’t have much time to explore,” Newt says, addressing his knees instead of Hermann. “I’ll have to drag you back there sometime. We can go to the science museum in Boston, they’ve got a whole exhibit on the beauty of mathematics and shit. You’d love it.”

Hermann opens his eyes, and his expression could almost be described as fond. “That would be nice,” he agrees. Newt expects him to follow up with some kind of sarcastic remark about Newt’s lack of attention span or appreciation for numbers, but he doesn’t. He just sort of looks at Newt meaningfully. Hell if Newt knows _what_ meaning he’s supposed to be deriving from the look, but there is definitely something to unpack there. He opens his mouth to say — what, he has no idea, but then the intercom announces that their flight is boarding and the moment is gone.

 

Hermann claims the window seat, and within twenty minutes of takeoff he’s fallen asleep against it, mouth slightly open, cheek smushed up against the glass. In an effort to distract himself from how unreasonably cute this is, Newt watches two of the in-flight movies in a row, requests three ginger ales, and gets up to pee approximately ten times. Eventually he digs around in Hermann’s bag until he finds the dramamine and takes some himself, falling into a fitful sleep.

Sleep is something Newt’s never been good at, overworking himself until he practically collapses unconscious for a few hours and throwing so much caffeine in his body that his hands often shake for hours, but after the Drift things have only gotten worse. Flashes of what he saw of the Anteverse blur together in sickening, neon blue, and he often wakes to his head throbbing and his stomach roiling with nausea. Combining dramamine with his espresso from earlier isn’t exactly helping things. At one point he breaks through the haze of nightmares in a groggy delirium and thinks he feels a hand rubbing soothing circles against his shoulder and upper arm, but he falls back asleep before he can really process it.

When Newt wakes up for real, Hermann is awake too, and pecking away at his presentation slides on his tablet again. Newt slouched sideways in his sleep and is now resting his head against Hermann’s arm, glasses askew. Hermann glances down at him, seemingly unperturbed.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

Newt sits up quickly, adjusting his glasses and running a hand through his hair. “Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the pinch of his muscles. “You?”

“Mm, well enough,” Hermann says. He continues to look at his tablet as he speaks. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”

“Oh.” Newt isn’t sure what to make of that. Hermann’s tone is carefully neutral, impossible to decipher. Newt tries to remember if he dreamt of anything incriminating. “Hear anything good?”

Hermann arches an eyebrow and gazes at him imperiously over the top of his glasses. The look sends a tiny thrill down Newt’s spine to land somewhere in his stomach, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. “No,” Hermann says delicately. “But if there’s something you’d like to share…”

“Careful, Herm, it almost sounded like you were _asking_ me to start talking,” Newt says. Hermann scoffs and turns back to his work, making sure to elbow Newt hard in the ribs as he does so.

 

They arrive in Boston, both cranky and jetlagged, at 4:45 p.m. By the time they’ve retrieved their luggage from baggage claim and gotten a taxi to their hotel, it’s nearly 6:30 and Newt is starving. The university has put them up in a nice room with two full size beds and a window with a view of the sprawling city below.

Hermann almost immediately commandeers the desk, typing away on his laptop with his shoulders hunched. Newt wishes he could smooth out the line of tension in Hermann’s spine. Geez, didn’t the guy _ever_ relax? Newt’s getting a backache just looking at him.

“Hey, you wanna grab dinner?” he asks.

Hermann shakes his head. “I’m still feeling a bit unwell from the flight,” he says.

Newt frowns. “C’mon, man, you’ve barely eaten anything all day.”

“You’ve hardly room to talk,” Hermann retorts. “How many times over the years have I had to remind you to eat so much as a snack in a given day? I doubt you’ve had a proper dinner in at least half a decade.”

“Yeah, well, maybe all your nagging finally worked,” Newt says. “I’m a changed man. Three meals a day from here on out.”

Hermann snorts disbelievingly, but his tone is less acidic when he says, “I’ll order something from room service later, I promise.”

“Okay,” Newt says. He tries not to be too disappointed as he leaves the hotel alone.

It is comforting, walking the streets of Boston again for the first time in years. Comforting, but strange, like he’s stepping into the life that an alternate version of himself lived. When Trespasser emerged from the depths of the ocean in 2013, it was as if the universe had delivered to Newt a beautiful, terrible gift. He had always been brilliant, but now he had _purpose_. Any existence he’d had before fell away, nebulous and unimportant. Newt tries not to think about how life after the war sometimes feels similarly hazy.

He ducks into a sandwich shop and sits with his feet up on the vinyl booth, eating a BLT and fries and nodding his head to the early 2010s pop playing over the speakers. Before he leaves, he orders a to-go cup of tomato soup.

On his walk back to the hotel, he finds himself staring up at the tall buildings. Boston is nothing like the Bone Slums back in Hong Kong, but his stomach flutters with the same adrenaline for a moment, and he turns to look over his shoulder half-expecting to see Otachi smashing around a corner. Of course nothing is there, just buildings and taxis and pedestrians living happy, kaiju-free lives.

He picks up the pace the rest of the way back to hotel anyway.

 

Hermann showered while Newt was gone. He is still at the desk, but his hair is slightly damp, dripping onto the tops of his ears and the collar of his shirt. Newt plunks the cup of soup onto the table next to Hermann’s laptop.

“What’s this?” Hermann says with a frown. “Newton, I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

“You can eat it later, then,” Newt says, sitting on one of the beds and going about yanking off his boots. “You’re _welcome_ , by the way.”

Hermann toys with the lid of the soup. “Thank you,” he says finally, like it pains him to do so. He swivels his chair around to face Newt. “I’ve been going over our presentation. Would you like to do a practice run-through tonight?”

“Nah,” Newt says, tossing his shoes across the room where they hit the wall with a satisfying _thunk_. “I’m just gonna wing it.”

“You most certainly will not,” Hermann says, bristling immediately. “We are representing the entirety of the PPDC with this lecture, not to mention that we are both in possession of unique knowledge and reasonably brilliant minds. I won’t have you mucking things up with _improv_.”

“As a former theater kid, that’s a low blow.” Newt leans back on his elbows. “Hermann, I promise you it will be fine. You’ve been looking at that stupid powerpoint for like eighteen hours by now. Let’s just, like, watch some TV and relax for a minute, okay? Can we please just do that?”

Hermann scowls at him for a moment, but then his shoulders slump and he shuts his laptop, getting to his feet and shuffling over to the bed Newt is sitting on. “Move over,” he grumbles, and Newt grins, making room for Hermann to sit beside him.

They watch the tail end of a nature documentary, and then several reruns of _Star Trek: Voyager_ while Hermann eats his soup, much to Newt’s smug delight. Eventually Newt starts yawning and Hermann insists they go to bed. During their Star Trek marathon they migrated to leaning against the headboard of Newt’s bed, pressed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, and Newt misses the warmth of Hermann’s body the moment he stands up. He watches Hermann gather his pajamas from his suitcase and disappear into the bathroom for a few minutes, emerging clad in a deep blue pinstripe pajama set so ridiculous-looking that Newt falls in love with him all over again. His own pajamas, a pair of sweatpants and an MIT shirt that’s sporting a threadbare hole in the collar, don’t seem to have much effect on Hermann’s feelings for him.

They lie in their respective beds in the dark. Newt stares at the ceiling and listens to Hermann’s steady breathing. He can tell Hermann isn’t asleep yet, and he’s proven correct when Hermann asks quietly, “You were in theater?”

“What?” Newt says, frowning. He rolls over and squints in Hermann’s direction, but between the darkness and the lack of his glasses, he can’t see shit.

“Earlier,” Hermann clarifies. “You said you were a ‘former theater kid’.”

“Oh. Yeah, I was. I mean, super briefly, like, one semester in ninth grade before they realized I was too smart and booted me off to college.” He remembers the heat of the stage lights on him, the itch of cheap costume fabric, the polite applause of parents watching a mediocre high school adaptation of _Grease_ and how even that lit a fire in his belly — an insatiable desire to be witnessed and adored. The theater kids found him irritating, which is saying something considering they were, you know, _theater kids_ , but Newt already recognized he was leagues above them in intelligence, so he didn’t care. There wasn’t much he missed about high school when he arrived, fourteen years old and four-foot-nine, at the university. But the applause; that had been nice.

“Did you have a ‘dream role,’ as they say?” Hermann asks.

“Fiyero, from _Wicked_ ,” Newt replies with a grin. “Y’know, _dancing through life_ ,” he sings in a scratchy, soft voice.

He can hear Hermann’s smile when he speaks next. “Yes, that would suit you.”

They lapse into silence after that, and before long Hermann’s breathing evens out to the slow, whistling snore of sleep. Newt tosses and turns in bed for another half hour, pressing his face into the pillow and willing himself to just go unconscious already.

And then — _he is in the ruined wreckage surrounding Otachi’s corpse, and there is a sick tearing noise and a stench of rot, and Otachi’s baby bursts out with a roaring squeal. Newt runs, his heart in his throat, but it is gaining on him and he is too slow, too out of shape, his body aching from one run for his life already tonight, and — the kaiju’s mouth closes around his torso, he can feel its jaws crushing him, and he screams —_

“Newton. Newton!”

Someone is shaking him, and his eyes fly open. He jerks away from Hermann’s touch so fast that he tangles himself in his sheets. He is drenched in cold sweat, heart speeding along like he’s just run a marathon. He feels like he might vomit.

Hermann reaches over to the table that stands between the two beds and clicks on the lamp. He is sitting on the edge of Newt’s bed, one hand still half-reaching for Newt’s trembling shoulder.

Newt swallows roughly and tries to calm himself down. He rubs his palm against his sternum. He can feel the phantom of it cracking under the kaiju’s teeth. He lets out an exhale that’s so noticeably shaky he can’t help but wince. Hermann wordlessly hands him his glasses, and he takes longer than usual to get them on his face. He can’t seem to stop shivering.

“What time is it?” he croaks.

“It’s just after three,” Hermann says.

Newt nods. He smooths his hands across his legs, covered by the sheets. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s quite alright,” Hermann says. He inches his hand forward and tentatively places it on Newt’s wrist. Newt feels like his heart is going to fly out of his body. “Are you — that is, would you like to talk about it?”

“Um,” Newt says. It’s hard to think straight when he still feels half inside his dream and Hermann’s thumb is rubbing his wrist gently. Newt wonders if Hermann can feel his pulse racing. “Not really,” he says finally.

“Okay,” Hermann says. They stay like that for what feels like minutes, Hermann practically caressing Newt’s hand and staring into Newt’s eyes with a sleepy sort of concern. “We should try to get a bit more rest,” Hermann says. “We have a busy day ahead.”

“Yeah,” Newt mutters. Hermann withdraws his hand. Newt closes his eyes and flops back against the pillows. He takes his glasses off and tosses them onto the side table again. Hermann watches him for a moment longer before he gets up and crosses back over to his own bed, turning off the lamp as he goes.

Unseen in the dark, Newt runs his fingers over the skin of his wrist where Hermann touched him.

 

They both wake up late, and Newt’s hair is still wet and messy from his shower when they duck into a cab that will take them to the university. They are to have a brunch with a few of the deans and the university’s president, then have their talk in the afternoon before they go to a dinner with more of the faculty. It’s going to be a whole lot of rubbing elbows with stuffy intellectuals that the two of them could probably run circles around anyway, and Newt is rebelling by wearing his most offensively casual skinny jeans. Hermann glares at Newt’s knees in the taxi like he’s trying to burn them off with laser beams.

“Something bothering you?” Newt asks innocently. Hermann scowls at him, and Newt grins.

“Do you not own anything that isn’t denim and a size too small?” Hermann says through his teeth. “Honestly, Newton, it wouldn’t kill you to put on a pair of slacks.”

“It just might, Hermann,” Newt responds cheekily. “It just might.”

 

Newt manages to goad Hermann into a shouting match approximately ten minutes into their hour-long lecture. Their audience of mostly undergrads seems torn between uncomfortable concern and delighted entertainment. They actually applaud at one point. Hermann, face red and chest ever-so-slightly heaving, quickly goes from pissed to embarrassed and clears his throat, turning awkwardly back to the powerpoint presentation. Newt, for his part, is definitely a little more turned on than he should be by the whole thing. Hermann refuses to speak to him through the entirety of dinner, but he keeps pace with him as they walk toward the street after bidding their goodbyes.

“You want to get drinks?” Newt asks. “I want to get drinks.”

Hermann shoots him a weary look out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t suppose reminding you that we have to be at the car rental at eight tomorrow will dissuade you?”

“Nope!” Newt says cheerfully. “Come on, dude, we killed it today! They totally loved us, bickering and all. _That_ calls for celebration.” He swings a companionable arm around Hermann’s shoulders, and the other man staggers a bit before, surprisingly, leaning into the embrace.

“Yes, yes, fine,” Hermann mutters. “If only so I have something to dull the memory of that fiasco.”

They duck into a bar that Newt recalls from his time at MIT. It’s a popular student hangout, though he wasn’t old enough to get in until he was already a professor, and then it just felt weird to do so. Now, though, _now_ he’s a rockstar, and Hermann is still leaning into his side as they make their way to a corner booth. Newt’s already feeling floaty and he isn’t even drunk yet.

Hermann and Newt get two beers each and argue good-naturedly about the contents of their lecture, what went right and what could be improved upon for their next go at it, whether or not Newt’s improvisation was a help or a hindrance to the whole thing (spoiler alert: it was _totally_ a help and Hermann needs to get the stick out of his ass). They’re not shouting at each other this time, although Newt’s sure their voices are raised enough to draw some attention. He can’t find it in him to care, not when Hermann’s foot keeps knocking against his under the table in a way that he’s not entirely sure is by accident. Something is blooming bright and hopeful in his chest as he takes another sip of his beer.

Newt’s just about to do something reckless like reach across and grab Hermann’s hand, when someone looms over their table. Newt looks up into the angry and drunk-looking face of some dude at least twice his size. “Um, hi?” Newt says, more than a little irritated at the intrusion.

“Don’t you have any goddamn respect?” the man slurs, and Newt stares at him blankly for a moment before he realizes the man is jabbing a finger at Newt’s exposed forearm, nearly poking Yamarashi’s inked head. Newt can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. So it’s going to be one of _those_ conversations. He glances at Hermann, and is surprised to see the angry set of his jaw.

Before Newt can even start to come up with a cutting retort for Drunken Asshole, Hermann is saying in a clipped, cold voice, “It’s you who should be learning some respect. Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to?”

“Hermann —” Newt mutters, but the guy cuts them both off.

“I don’t give a fuck who he is, if he had any decency he’d cover that shit up,” he spits. “People died and he’s got murderers on his arms for anyone to see.” He has the audacity to grab at one of Newt’s rolled-up sleeves and tries to tug it down.

Newt exclaims a startled, “Hey, what the hell!” and the guy actually _shoves_ him, what the fuck, and Newt falls back into the booth a little. Suddenly Hermann is standing up, glaring at the man and blazing with righteous fury, and he slams his cane against the side of the table so hard that the man actually flinches.

“You have _no idea_ how intimately aware we are of the destruction the kaiju caused,” Hermann snarls. “If it were not for the man you seem so intent on harassing, those monsters would still be wreaking havoc on us all. Now if you don’t have anything _better_ to do than accost strangers…” He turns to the bartender who is approaching their table to see what the fuss is about. “We will be closing our tab,” Hermann tells him coolly. He pulls out his wallet and digs around until he finds the proper currency, throwing a couple bills on the table before seizing Newt’s upper arm and yanking him out of the booth.

Newt is quiet as Hermann leads the way out of the bar, anger and humiliation burning in his throat. As soon as they’re outside, Hermann stops and turns to face Newt, his expression now simply one of concern. “Newton, are you —”

“What the hell was that about?” Newt snaps, rounding on Hermann with more venom in his tone than he means to. Hermann gapes at him wordlessly. “I mean, Jesus Christ, Hermann! Why would you do that?”

“Why would _I_ —” Hermann splutters. “Newton, I was _defending_ you!”

“I can fight my own battles, dude! You think if I couldn’t handle a drunk idiot with an opinion I would’ve gotten the tattoos in the first place?” He knows he shouldn’t be so angry with Hermann, but he’s horribly embarrassed that Hermann doesn’t even think Newt can stick up for himself. As if he hasn’t been dealing with this kind of thing for more than a _decade_. “You’ve had your share of shit to say about them, in case you forgot,” he adds sharply.

Hermann takes a deep breath through his nose, and his composure is incredibly grating. Newt feels like shouting right now, and not in the fun way like earlier at the lecture. He can still feel the rough tug of the man’s hand on his arm and his stomach lurches, sour and full of cheap beer.

“I would hope you know I’d never say the sorts of things that man said,” Hermann says softly. They’re standing close the wall beside the door of the bar, and the bouncer is pointedly ignoring them. “Was I supposed to just sit by and watch? How would you have reacted if he’d said something about my cane?”

“That’s not even remotely the same thing and you know it,” Newt says, more miserable than angry now.

Hermann tilts his head in concession. “True,” he says. “My point is, we’re meant to look out for each other. Despite what I may say at times, I _am_ aware of your brilliance, Newt. I don’t know how you can stand to be so underestimated.”

Newt is momentarily stunned by the use of his nickname. “It _did_ bother me for a long time,” he says. “I mean, shit, Hermann, do you know what it’s like to be a teenager in a fucking doctoral program? I spent ages trying to get people twice my age to respect me as a peer, and finally I realized they were never going to. So I stopped trying. I didn’t need them to like me, I just needed to be right. And I almost always am,” he adds, smiling wryly. “They might hate my tattoos, but they can’t deny that I’m fucking _right_. At least it gets their attention.” _And none of that even matters anymore, because I stopped wanting everyone’s attention ages ago. I don’t need their adoration — just yours._ He can’t bring himself to say what he really means, so he just looks back into Hermann’s face.

Hermann’s expression is open and soft, the confusion from before melted away into something so close to _affection_ that it makes Newt’s heart stutter in his chest.

“What?” Newt says self-consciously, shifting from foot to foot under Hermann’s gaze.

Hermann shakes his head. “You continually surprise me, that’s all,” he says, decidedly fond. “It used to make me so angry, you know. Here I was, constantly being overlooked and underestimated because of my leg, and I couldn’t understand why someone would subject themselves to that kind of treatment by choice.” He laughs softly. “I was perhaps a bit harsh in my judgment.”

Newt’s shoulders slump, feeling like an asshole. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. Thanks for defending my honor.”

“I know you are perfectly capable of defending it yourself,” Hermann says. “I suppose I’m just a bit protective these days.”

And then he reaches over and takes Newt’s hand, and Newt’s brain momentarily implodes.

While Newt stares dumbly at their interlaced fingers, Hermann says, “I’ve been waiting for you to make the first move since the Drift, but… well, you were taking a long time. You’ll have to forgive my impatience.”

“Since… the Drift…” Newt repeats. “Hang on, so you knew I liked you this whole time? What the hell?”

“I assumed you were aware the feeling was mutual,” Hermann says. He smirks, pleased as usual to be one step ahead. “Apparently not.”

“Hey — _hey_ , in my defense,” Newt says quickly, while Hermann only grins wider at him, “there was a _lot_ to process during that Drift, okay, how exactly was I supposed to parse the deepest desires of your heart from memories of your, your fucking childhood toys and, oh, how about the _actual monster brain_ we were connected to?” He trails off as Hermann gets in his space, backing him up against the wall of the bar and releasing Newt’s hand in favor of pressing his own against the bricks beside Newt’s head, caging him. Newt swallows audibly, his heart hammering.

“Newton, _hush_ ,” Hermann says, and kisses him.

Newt actually _whines_ at the warm, firm press of Hermann’s lips against his own, and okay, that’s fucking embarrassing, but then Hermann’s tongue is in Newt’s mouth and he forgets to think about anything else. His hands grab at Hermann’s waist, and he thanks whoever’s up there that it was a temperate enough day for Hermann to forgo his usual sweater vest; Newt can feel his warm skin through the fabric of his dress shirt, and it sends a spike of lust shooting through him. He groans and tugs Hermann closer.

The bouncer coughs loudly, and they break apart at once, gasping for breath. Hermann laughs ruefully and presses his forehead against Newt’s. Newt thinks that Hermann has never looked so lovely, his face flushed under the yellow light of the streetlamps and his eyes bright and kind and looking at Newt with such adoration it’s almost too much to bear.

“Perhaps we should continue this elsewhere,” Hermann murmurs, his mouth still so close to Newt’s that their lips are nearly touching.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Newt breathes.

They get a taxi back to their hotel, holding hands in the backseat and grinning at each other every time they make eye contact. Newt tries to ignore the nerves mounting in his chest, the voice in the back of his mind screaming _don’t fuck this up, please God don’t ruin the only thing you’ve got left_.

Hermann wastes no time once they’re back in their room, pushing Newt up against the closed door and kissing him breathless, one hand working deftly to unbutton Newt’s shirt all the while. Newt whimpers when Hermann’s tongue drags along the side of his throat, long fingers tracing Newt’s collarbone as Hermann pushes open Newt’s shirt. It’s so good, it’s perfect, and that’s making Newt panic.

“Hermann,” he says, patting Hermann’s shoulder. “Wait a second.”

Hermann pulls back immediately, looking into Newt’s face with concern. “Are you alright? Would you like to stop?”

“No,” Newt says. “I really, _really_ want to continue, I just. You’re sure about this?”

Hermann’s brow furrows. “Of course.”

“It’s just that, like, after these lectures are over, what are we going back to, y’know? I mean, my life’s work is basically useless now, and I still expect monsters to pop out of the ocean every time I turn my back, and you’re my best friend and kind of the only thing I have going for me anymore so I’m — I’m fucking terrified that you’ll —” _that you’ll see I’m a mess and you’ll leave_ , he can’t quite bring himself to say. Typical Newt Geiszler, always running his mouth but never saying what really matters.

By some blessing he’s sure he doesn’t deserve, Hermann understands anyway. “Newton. My dear, ridiculous Newton. Have you forgotten I’ve known you more than a decade? Never mind the fact that I’ve been inside your _head_. What on earth do you believe you have hiding from me that would drive me away?” When Newt doesn’t respond, Hermann strokes his cheek, coaxes him to make eye contact. “I have loved you for a very long time. I don’t think I could hate you even if I wanted to — I’ve tried, believe me.”

Newt huffs out a laugh at that, embarrassed to realize he’s getting choked up, and tries to hide it by kissing Hermann soundly. When they part, Hermann brushes his thumb against Newt’s still-parted mouth, making his breath catch.

“I do not harbor any illusions that you are perfect,” Hermann tells him. “I want you exactly as you are. You’re not going to lose me, _liebling_. In all honesty, I can’t imagine my life without you.”

Newt kisses Hermann’s fingers, reaches up to catch his hand and bring Hermann’s wrist to his lips. “I love you so fucking much,” he murmurs.

“And I love you,” Hermann replies with a soft smile. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Newt says decidedly. “Please, continue ravishing me.”

Hermann laughs, and then he does just that. It doesn’t take long for him to rid Newt of his shirt entirely, and then sets to work on Newt’s skinny jeans. (“You’ve been dying to get these off me all day, haven’t you?” Newt teases, and Hermann rolls his eyes.) Hermann’s touch is almost reverent as he traces the tattoos on Newt’s chest, before dragging his hand down to cup Newt through his boxers. Newt closes his eyes and lets his head thunk back against the door. When he opens them again, Hermann has divested himself of his own shirt, and the sight of Hermann’s bare chest, pale and lovely, is maybe the hottest thing Newt has ever seen.

“God, I love you,” Newt breathes, running his fingers along Hermann’s ribs, and Hermann looks a bit bashful.

“Oh, stop,” he says, looking away. A faint blush stains his cheeks, and Newt pulls him close for another kiss, open-mouthed and slightly desperate. He wants to trace every inch of Hermann’s skin with his lips and tongue, and when he whispers as much in Hermann’s ear, the other man goes a delightful shade of red.

“And here I thought I was to be ravishing _you_ ,” he mutters back. He slots his good leg between Newt’s thighs and grinds forward, and Newt gasps, pressing his forehead against Hermann’s shoulder.

“We should — bed,” he manages. He says it mostly out of concern for Hermann’s leg, but he’s also getting kind of weak in the knees himself.

Hermann smirks at him, pleased to have regained the upper hand, but steers them both toward the nearest of the two beds nonetheless. Newt flops onto the blankets on his back and Hermann straddles his thighs, bending forward to kiss his throat, his chest.

Newt’s hands find purchase on Hermann’s hips, and he frowns. “You’re still wearing, like, way too many clothes, dude,” he says, plucking at Hermann’s slacks.

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?” Hermann quips, biting down on the juncture of Newt’s shoulder and neck, and yeah, okay, Newt’s definitely a goner.

Newt fumbles with the fastening of Hermann’s pants, but eventually he gets them undone and Hermann helps him to shuck them off along with both of their underwear, and then they’re pressed together, skin against skin, and for a moment all Newt can do is kiss Hermann and cling to him, one hand at his lower back and the other raking through his hair.

Hermann slides a hand between them and starts jerking Newt off, and Newt swears, his hand tightening convulsively in Hermann’s hair. This only encourages Hermann, who kisses Newt messily and grinds down against his thigh, his hand still working expertly around Newt’s dick. Newt’s already close, and the harsh, breathy sounds Hermann is making in his ear are nearly enough to push him over the edge.

“Fuck, Hermann, I’m — ah, _shit_ , do that again — I’m not gonna last much longer,” he pants.

Hermann lifts his head enough to look Newt in the eyes, sweat making his hair flop into his face in that delightfully mussed up state he almost never lets it get to, just this side of positively wrecked. He smiles as he presses a surprisingly tender kiss to the corner of Newt’s mouth.

“That’s alright, Newton,” he murmurs. “Just let go.”

A twist of his wrist and Newt’s done for — his fingernails bite into the small of Hermann’s back and he groans a quiet, “ _Fuck_.” Hermann strokes him through his orgasm until Newt gently pushes his hand away, reaching down instead to where Hermann is still rutting against his thigh, which, while insanely hot, is sort of impractical.

The moment he gets his hand around Hermann, the other man practically whimpers. It barely takes a half dozen strokes before Hermann comes, breathing Newt’s name with his forehead pressed against Newt’s own. They lay there in a post-orgasm haze, and Newt wraps his arms around Hermann to hug him close. Hermann runs his fingers lazily through Newt’s sweat-damp hair.

“I’d say that was worth the wait, but I also kind of hate us for being idiots for so long when we could’ve been doing _that_ for the past five years,” Newt says finally, and Hermann chuckles.

“You always were a bit slow on the uptake,” Hermann says, and Newt splutters indignantly before he’s quieted with a kiss.

“Is your leg okay?” Newt asks when they part. His hand drifts down to Hermann’s thigh, rubbing it gently. Hermann nods, wincing.

“I’m sure it will be sore tomorrow, but I dare say it was worth it,” he says. They disentangle from each other to lay side by side instead. Without Hermann’s body pressed up against him, Newt shivers as the air hits his skin, and Hermann traces a feather-light touch over the goosebumps on his arm.

“I’m kind of a mess right now,” Newt admits quietly, watching Hermann’s fingers trail over his forearm. “I don’t think I’m very good at this whole post-kaiju existence thing.”

“We will figure it out, as we do most things, together,” Hermann assures him. “I rather think we have a good track record for problem-solving.”

They clean themselves up and then fall back into bed together, Newt insisting on being the big spoon and holding Hermann close against his chest. He presses a soft kiss to the nape of Hermann’s neck and whispers, just because he can now and the words thrill him to say, “Hey. I love you.”

Hermann strokes the back of Newt’s hand where it’s resting against his chest. “I love you,” he replies. And that, Newt thinks, is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "come under the covers" by walk the moon, which is a good newmann song imo. special thanks to kelsey for planting the idea in my head of newt as fiyero bc i can't stop thinking about it now. also a shoutout to my friend sierra for letting me send her the smut at 1am despite her knowing nothing about pacific rim, and only making fun of me a little bit.
> 
> comments always super appreciated!! i'm on twitter @hermanngottiieb and tumblr @joshuawashinton


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